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"Why don't they go on bombardin' of us to-day?" said one. "'Cos it's Sunday, and they're singin' 'ymns," said another. "Well," said the first, "if they do start bombardin' of us, there ain't only one 'ymn I'll sing, an' that's 'Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me 'ide myself in thee." It was spoken in the broadest Devon without a smile. The British soldier is a class apart.
Wall, from there we went up to a house on a hill, where poor Baroness Riedesel hid with her three little children, amongst the wounded and dyin' officers of the British army, and stayed there three days and three nights, while shots and shells wuz a bombardin' the little house and not knowin' but some of the shots had gone through her lover husband's heart, before they struck the low ruff over her head.
You ain't no notion how grand it makes a body feel to be woke up at the crack o' dawn on one's weddin' mornin' with the noise o' the bombardin' in honor o' the day! I'm like to miss it this year, with only my own four young Yankees spoilin' my sleep settin' off torpeders under my nose." "You won't miss anything," said Claire reassuringly, "but you mustn't say a word to Sam.
"This must be the Fourth of July," the drummer grunted, as another rocket, this time a blue one, flashed across the zenith. "What's doing?" "They're bombardin' us with red an' blue fire," whispered Jimmie! "Get up. I'm goin' out to see what's comin' off here. Want to go?" "Of course I want to go," replied Peter. "I didn't come down here to sleep my head off, did I? Shall I take my drum?"
'Bombardin' Boston, at Cadiz, in San June de Matzoon, sighted near th' gas-house be our special correspondint, copyright, 1898, be Mike O'Toole. 'A sthrong position, says th' Sthrateejy Board. 'Undoubtedly, th' fleet is headed south to attack and seize Armour's glue facthory. Ordher Sampson to sail north as fast as he can, an' lay in a supply iv ice. Th' summer's comin' on.
An' as much more as he durst skulk away with." "Easy, now, old Fire-and-Brimstone," warned Bill, "or that temper will gain the upper hand. Don't spoil the show by bombardin' Blackbeard with that cross-eyed musket." Now here was young Master Cockrell, a gentleman and a near kinsman of a high official who had sworn to hang every mother's son of a pirate that harried Carolina waters.
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